


Tastes Unusual and Varied

by Cola_Bubble_Gum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dominant Sherlock, F/M, Light Sadism, Masochism, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlolly - Freeform, Submissive Molly, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 08:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2018673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cola_Bubble_Gum/pseuds/Cola_Bubble_Gum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Distractions. Cases. Corpses. Research.</p><p>Sherlock keeps himself busy, and would admit to none that he fears himself when he becomes bored. His risk-seeking behavior becomes unshackled by logic itself, and that can only lead dangerous places -- for himself, or for others.</p><p>As a result, Sherlock doesn't trust himself, and rightly so.</p><p>He trusts Molly. He makes a proposal to her, something that must be kept between the two of them no matter the circumstances. Molly says yes.</p><p>(An imagining of canon-interleaved events. This is my first AO3 publishing effort. Please be gentle, and there's every chance I'll be editing this here and there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Request

**Author's Note:**

> *** This story contains violent, aggressive sexual activity. Individual scenes or even whole chapters may appear to be nonconsensual overall, but it is technically consensual to both parties. ***
> 
> DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE DISTURBED BY VIOLENCE OR RAPE PLAY.
> 
> Oh, and this is me kind of playing fast and loose. I'm still getting used to the editing system here, and I've never done Sherlock fic before. (Not sure I will again. I'm mostly in another fandom.)

The riding crop was right there, where it had lay since his tests with the corpse that he'd used on that fateful day a few weeks ago. Next to it were the knives. A handful of Kershaw models with sufficient variation of blade shape for his investigation into the patterns of tearing due to rapid withdrawal of bladed weapons from otherwise unmarked flesh.

Sherlock was biting down on the inside of his cheek before he realized it, and a leak of savory warmth in his mouth told him he'd broken the skin. The exact shape of the bite pattern was one he'd probed with his tongue regularly, and always on the left side, for whatever reason.

_You can't._

No, he certainly couldn't. There were many things Sherlock appeared to be, most of them dysfunctional, but this was something he could not lay out to John. It would invite questions. It would invite speculation. It would change how his flatmate -- his _friend_ , or as close as he got -- looked at him.

As much as it was difficult to bear the secret, the thought of John looking at him with a definite suspicion of carnal intent was not something he could imagine bearing at all.

He wasn't attracted to John. He wasn't gay. The problem wasn't attraction to John. It never was. It wasn't even attraction. It was simply those damned _urges_ , and the places they sent his mind when he wasn't sufficiently distracted.

He knew it wasn't John because it had never been limited to John. Before he'd met John, the urges would target victims, officers, criminals, anyone. Not that John wasn't an attractive man -- he was, of course. Sherlock simply wasn't homosexual. He wasn't entirely sure he was sexual in any conventional sense at all.

John was just - well, painfully convenient. Sherlock chuckled at the Freudian slip, then shook his head, resting his hand on the grip of the crop.

He had no case, and no case meant boredom.

Boredom, for Sherlock Holmes, was more dangerous than anything else.

. o O o .

Molly sighed and sat back in the chair with a squeak.

Her eyes dragged along the file. Work was a distraction, and a welcome one. Rarely would the calm be broken, but oh, when it was!

He was insane, or nearly so. He was a high-functioning sociopath with eyes that seemed to have only two modes: Pinning something into place, or drilling into something for the sake of analysis. He'd been coming in occasionally for years, according to her other colleagues. Molly had been late to the party, if one could call it a party.

Molly drew a long breath and tried to decide if she wanted to let herself think about it, or if she wanted to shove it all away again. The deliberation was broken after a moment by the high beep of her phone.

[ Coming to St. Bart's. Need to speak in private. ]  
[ - SH ]

Of course it was him.

Molly rubbed the back of her neck and drained her coffee. Now it was time to gently fold all her thoughts into a mass to set aside.

. o O o .

Twenty minutes later, Molly had everything in place. The other special registrar was sent off on an errand that would last at least two hours, and that left Molly alone with only security watching the building -- which, Sherlock had assured her, was all right because all the night guards owed him favors.

The door burst open and in came Sherlock.

Molly blinked. She wasn't a master of deduction, but she knew what she was looking at, and she'd never seen Sherlock in this state before. His eyes had a fresh, furtive intensity, and they seemed to search for the sight of her with hunger. When they found her, they did not move, shift, or seem to consider. "Molly."

Molly swallowed. That was crazy. She was imagining things. "Sherlock."

"I apologize for this, but -- I want to speak to you, privately. I have a proposal, and it is one that I suspect could benefit both of us whilst allowing us to both maintain our professional standing and manner."

Molly blinked. "Pretend you're talking to a normal person. It's late."

His mouth opened slightly, then closed, then opened again. He dragged his sight off her for a moment, formulating.

Molly felt distinct relief, somehow, that he wasn't staring.

"Molly, I have a problem that is complementary to your own, and I believe we can find at least a partial relief together."

Molly swallowed. "Pretend a little harder?"

"I believe we both share an unfortunate affection for humiliation. Since I'm a sexual sadist and you are a sexual masochist, and we are both unable to maintain personal relationships to fulfill these urges, I am suggesting we could . . . trade."

Molly shifted against the autopsy table. _Was this a dream? This couldn't be a dream._ "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

"You enjoy being hurt and being degraded. I enjoy hurting and degrading. We are both in positions that could be compromised by these proclivities in various ways. I think the solution I'm suggesting is -- "

 _Time for a bald lie._ Molly's reflexive defense about such things was an immediate, absolute denial. She'd spent years perfecting it, to the point she almost believed it herself. Sherlock might see through it, but it was her best effort. "Insane. For one, I'm not a masochist and I'm not into degradation and humiliation. For two, I don't know why you'd think I'd even entertain the notion with you in particular."

"Elevated pulse rate, pupil dilation, distinct muscle tremors and visual targets, a handful of complex microexpressions -- your body doesn't lie, Molly. Neither does mine, right now." He stepped closer, his eyes on her again, predatory. "I'm letting you see it. I'm letting you see what drives I normally have taken decades to learn to suppress in the interest of intellectual pursuit."

The last syllable was crisp, sharp. Molly felt a quiver pulse through her body, and she felt herself backing up against the autopsy table -- but she couldn't make herself evade, couldn't make herself move to the side even though nothing physically blocked her. "You look like you want to hurt me."

"Not you specifically, Molly Hooper. Please do not mistake my intent. While you are attractive in a sort of conventional, unaware sense, and reasonably intelligent for one of the normal people, I have no interest in specifically causing you unwanted harm."

"Unwanted."

"Yes. I enjoy inflicting pain. Sometimes the simple process of getting rough with someone who's evading arrest is enough for a time. Sometimes I give myself a project that happens to include burning or beating or attacking a corpse, and this helps to stifle the need as well. Unfortunately, my primary tactic in preventing my urges from becoming overwhelming was solitude."

"Was?"

"Yes. Now, I live with John Watson, and the urges have a target. They are increasing in both frequency and intensity." He was leaning closer, looming, perhaps without realizing. "If I do not find some way to hurt someone capable of reacting for a protracted period of time consensually, I fear I will lose my grip and find a way to do it nonconsensually. While I might still have enough sense to get away from John before he came to harm, that would simply make some other unfortunate innocent the target of my unfortunate drives."

Molly gasped. She'd had that dream -- from the other end. She'd dreamed of Sherlock breaking into her flat, gassing her or injecting her, holding her down and hurting her until she wouldn't fight back. And then --

"Molly, please understand that this is difficult for me. I do not have a lot of acquaintances. I have fewer I can trust. I do not wish to discuss this with John in any capacity. It changes how people look at you, and I'm sure you're aware of that."

"Yes." Molly squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. "I understand. I believe I understand every aspect. So why me?"

"I am not bereft of ethical constraints, Molly, even if they are self-imposed and not borne of some deeper neurological structure present in most of the populace. I do not want to traumatize anyone psychologically to such a degree, nor do I wish to commit sexual assault. As I do not have a wide circle of acquaintances, cannot possibly trust 'professional' submissives, and do not wish to lose control, I thought of you."

Molly blinked. "You mean I'm the only person you know with submissive tendencies."

"Not quite, but you are the only person I know with those tendencies who is also in no position to interfere with me, and would not seem to be an immediately viable target for blackmail."

Molly took a sharp breath. "Describe what you'd need from me."

"Your screams, your pain, your squeals whether they are of delight or agony or both. Your writhing and resistance."

Molly forced herself to keep her voice level. Her heart raced in her chest but she kept her breathing at a stable pace. "Resistance?"

"I am aware you have a fighting spirit, Molly. I want to see it exercised, if this is going to be something we attempt. There's no fun in someone who is broken in advance, or snaps like balsa. You are stronger than that, despite your nonconfrontational nature and your intimacy issues."

Molly tried to look irritated at him. "What a brilliant compliment."

"It wasn't intended as an insult, despite your sarcastic tone and apparent unhappiness with the phrasing." He took a breath and his eyes took a scan of her body for a moment. "Molly, ask yourself a question: Would you have given me a second thought if I'd been some other genial face around the morgue?"

Molly tried to process it. Sherlock -- neutered, for lack of a better word. Normal.

"Precisely. The disappointment on your face tells the story." He let his mouth form a small smile, looking down at Molly. "You may not feel comfortable about the things I say, but you enjoy them on a deeper level, on a primal and undeniable level."

She swallowed. "I . . . yes. That's still not a reason to simply give you free reign over my body."

"Would you like to hear a reason?"

Molly forced herself to shrug. The distance he stood was less than four inches from her, and she swore that she felt the heat radiate from his form.

"It will _free_ you, Molly Hooper. It may have always seemed like something horrid or dirty, wretched and defective, and perhaps it is. That's a judgment I am distinctly unqualified to make. However, it _frees_ you to be hurt and treated badly, for whatever reason, just as it frees me if I can degrade and inflict pain. It frees your thoughts, your mind. It frees you from trying to handle a need inextricably linked with some sort of emotional attachment. I think you'd agree those tend to be messy and problematic at best."

The last sentence struck her as odd, but it struck some chord all the same, and the word 'free' had caught like a burr in her mind. Molly hated herself for speaking, but couldn't hold it in. "I want -- I want to be free. I want to feel free."

"You are not the only one." Sherlock's smile spread wider, then softened. "I would owe you. I would owe you a great deal, Molly Hooper. I know you could find your way to having someone hurt you or treat you poorly. I haven't the luxury."

Molly stifled her first response: _If I could find my way to it, I would have._ What he said was no doubt the same sort of sarcastic anti-compliment as his critique of her appearance and the changes she attempted to effect on it. This man who held court with the Lestrade, who was rumored to have a powerful brother in politics, and who had eyes capable of dismantling crime scenes and seemingly souls? He would _owe_ her. "That . . . might be useful."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You have a talent for understatement, Molly. Now, then. If you agree to this, you will have absolute veto control. You can opt out any time by using a safeword, one you may choose. If that happens, we may terminate activity permanently or until you are ready to resume them. However, Molly, unless you do opt out, I will simply take what I wish, do what I wish, and while I know you'll fight -- it's only natural -- I also know you'll lose."

Molly shifted on her feet. Warmth surged through her body, and the moment was stamped into her mind. An urge blossomed, part in her chest, part in her stomach, and part between her legs. _I cannot wait to get privacy so I can touch myself about this._ "I can opt out at any time, but until I do, it's at your whim. I understand." She took a deep breath, then another, then lifted her eyes to meet his again. "What about, um . . . sedatives?"

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment. "How forward of you, Molly."

Molly forced herself to keep still, not to shake. She wasn't supposed to ask questions like these. She wasn't even supposed to be in the same conversations as questions like these. "Let me clarify. I mean, if I'm sedated I can't consent at that point, can I? And that's a bit further than I think I should go in one fell swoop. But I do . . . enjoy being dosed."

He tilted his head. "Curious. Well, while I won't claim my interest is purely sexual, I do believe I'd like to have the option for certain avenues to release." He cleared his throat. "Allow me to suggest a sort of compromise. I won't do anything to you save for transporting or restraining you whilst you're unconscious, drugged, or sedated -- until and unless you give me that further permission. Anything else that I do will be while you're conscious and aware. After that, if there are lines to cross that you'd like to discuss keeping intact -- the 'hard limits', as it were -- then we'll discuss them then. Will that be acceptable?"

Molly blinked. For a moment, all she could imagine was being groggy, halfway to a chemical hangover, her face wet with snot and tears, with her body underneath a powerful, lithe figure who was violating her most vigorously. She clenched her teeth to keep from moaning, then nodded. "Yes. I agree to the revised terms."

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent. Now, I won't claim I know your schedule -- we'll fix that soon enough. Have you got the evening free?"

Her throat clenched. "This very evening? My cat -- "

"Has a gravity-fed self-filling dish for water, and a separate one for food. You mentioned it the second week you were working here, when you were asked about a double shift." He shook his head. "There needs to be honesty in this sort of arrangement, Molly, both between us as well as with ourselves. Search yourself a moment. Have you obligations? Or have you simply got the reflex of avoiding company, and do you want to give up another evening of your life to that reflex?"

Why did she feel even more trapped by the fact he'd been keeping track of her that long? She didn't want to go home. Not alone, anyway. Admitting it wasn't something Molly Hooper did, unless pressed by an authority.

Sherlock's smile became shark-toothed. "I've already selected a location for this. Will you give me your full trust, Molly Hooper?"

Molly swallowed. "My safeword is 'red'. Barring that, yes. You have my full trust." She wanted to scream or touch herself, she wanted to feel a blade or a fist, she wanted to feel used and thrown away. First things first -- lock up and shut down. She turned away from him to go get her keys. "I'll get closed up, and we -- "

"No. I can do it much faster, and I have been waiting to indulge for too long to be patient now."

She broke into a squeak as a sharp pinch flared on the side of her neck, a small hypodermic. A strong arm slipped under her waist. Her sense of balance swung wildly for a moment, and she realized she'd been picked up like a bag of crisps off the shelf. Thin whines came from her, but they were not in protest.

"Shhh, shhh, shh. Talking isn't for you right now, Molly. Sleep is what you'll need for the time being. I know how to lock up for you."

Consciousness disintegrated for her, and she saw the lights switch off while her senses left her and a moan floated from her throat. A prodding sense of something in her lower back as she was pulled back, pressed against his form. She was dimly aware that it was likely his erection, and felt like it was quite firm indeed. There was a vague sense of movement, of her position shifting in space. 

The last thing she heard before passing out was a chuckle bordering on a laugh. The last thing she was aware of was his scent, closer than it'd ever been to her.

The last thought she had was, _What in the hell is wrong with you, Molly?!_


	2. A Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A necessary discussion of the parameters of engagement.

Molly was dimly aware of a ceiling.

It looked like nothing she'd seen. Faux tin ceiling, ornate and in glossy white.

Thinking took effort.

"Mmmm. Shift in breathing. I think someone's awake."

A soft whack sounded behind her head, and after a moment she placed it as the sound of a book being shut. "Sherlock?"

"Of course, Molly. Who else would it be?" His head slid into view above her own, analysis in his eyes. A light flooded her face, then shifted away. "Pupils constricting and dilating normally. Your heart rate isn't going to be a solid indicator for other reasons, even right now." His face moved up out of her vision, and a clank underneath her later, the part of the bed under her upper body was tilted at an angle. She was acutely aware of the sensations of shifting clothing on her body, but when she tried to bring her head forward to look down, she could not. It didn't feel like she still had her lab coat on, but neither did she feel much air-on-skin contact. Likely he'd just taken off the lab coat, and it felt like her hair was down.

Molly caught his scent again. His natural scent sat beneath a seemingly random melange of things every time she'd met him, and considering the nature of his private research and occupation, anything might be there -- gunpowder, ink, paraffin, oil, anything. Sometimes she could tell he'd smoked before she'd seen him. This time, though, he smelled clean. He almost never did. His soap was understated and practical, as so many other aspects of his physical upkeep seemed to be. Molly wasn't quite sure what she should have expected.

She pushed the thoughts away, and focused on her current situation. She could see part of the room. The walls were bare white, with holes here and there, small ones. The sort that nails for pictures would have made. "Where is this?"

Sherlock stepped into view on one side. "Considering that privacy and security is an absolute necessity for this endeavor, Molly, I secured in advance a private location. The family that lived in this flat once was only too happy to trade me effective ownership of it for a far roomier location that happened to be in my possession, and it's not worth noting to the sort of people we'd need to worry about."

Molly blinked. She couldn't move. Why couldn't she move? Her mind still felt like layers were missing. "I meant -- never mind. Why can't I move anything but my eyes?"

"I wanted to provide a sense of helplessness for when you woke. I understand that you enjoy it, even if it's illusory, and I assure you it's very, very illusory at the moment. I restrained you while you were heavily sedated. While normally I'd consider someone neutralized if their wrists and feet were securely bound and I was at a distance, that wasn't the intention here." He reached to each side of her head, leaning forward, his unusually clean scent drifting closer again. "Hence, I went for the full Monty, including head restraint straps."

The pressure on her forehead vanished as soon as he leaned back. She shifted her shoulders and felt a reflex smile tug at her lips as a sense of soreness washed through her upper body. She saw Sherlock's head give a slight tilt, and found the manner he watched her in somewhat reptilian.

She also found it somewhat arousing, but the urge to stifle that clamped down quickly.

"Mmm. Understandable. Although hopefully that shame is something we'll work on."

"What?" Molly blinked.

"There was a thought in your mind that you immediately rejected. I've noted this on a number of occasions, but the most telling incident was during the research for my treatise on postmortem bruising, when you saw me working that corpse over. It was the the first time you felt bold enough to actually try to ask me to have coffee with you."

"But you thought -- "

"I am awkward, Molly, but I am not a fool. While I admit that I was quite distracted by casework prior to that event, research takes fewer mental resources for me. I noted that you watched from the viewing window, whereas you had only done that two other times when I was in that area: The first time and the third time. The first time your concern suggested that you were nervous about allowing a civilian alone with corpses -- a reasonable worry, indeed. The second time you purposefully avoided me, and I assumed you had decided I was unlikely to find you attractive. The third time I was quite engrossed in the scars that Alan Hawthorne's right arm bore, so I paid no attention to your activity. However, I realized your arousal had heightened on the eighth visit, during the aforementioned postmortem bruising."

Molly blinked, then swallowed. He'd known. Of course he'd known. "If you knew, why didn't you just, well, say yes?"

Sherlock took a breath, his brow furrowing. "The rituals that society uses for emotional intimacy are something I use for manipulating suspects, witnesses, informants, and criminals. I will admit I use a sort of anti-social analogue in order to keep an emotional distance. I suppose I could say I didn't want to lead you on. I'm married to my work, Molly. If I had any other way at all to deal with my 'needs', I assure you, I would. Simple isolation worked for a long time." He swallowed and blinked.

"So you only want to hurt me?" Molly realized what she'd said was ambiguous. "Physically."

Sherlock's lips pursed a moment. "That is an oversimplification, but roughly, yes. I am aware that this is likely to be highly arousing for both of us, but I assume that since we are both suppressing urges, any amount of relief of them would help in that effort." His eyes cast to the floor for a moment.

Molly nodded. "That makes a sort of sense. I'm kind of just . . . a punching bag, then?"

His mouth opened and closed a few times. "It's hardly that vulgar, Molly. And I assure you, I've spent plenty of time with punching bags and they are frustratingly silent. When you hurt people, they make noises, and lovely noises at that."

Molly felt a distinct tension in her legs, and there was a soft creak from the ankle restraints. For a moment, Molly could hear only her breathing and Sherlock's.

His lips broke into a thin smile. "Tell the truth, Molly. Would you like to see what kind of sounds you make when I hurt you?"

Molly swallowed and nodded, her eyes shut. His focus on her was almost painful, and somehow having her eyes open meant letting him see it was the truth, and not some silly little lie.

But oh, how she wanted it.

She'd imagined his hand with her hair wrapped around it twice, pulling hard. She'd imagined him with the crop, working on her body instead of a corpse, laying fresh bruise on top of fresh bruise again and again. She wanted to wear damage he'd put on her body under her clothes like some women wanted to wear silly lacy underthings, and know that every little ache was from something he'd done to her.

"I've wondered myself about it. I find myself wondering it frequently about most people I see, to be quite honest, but I rarely feel comfortable letting myself follow those thoughts anywhere beyond initial bloom. As I said, Molly, I do not wish to traumatize. About those who find pain recreational, however, I don't see the harm in entertaining notions."

"So you've thought about what sort of sounds John would make if you hurt him?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened. "Yes. And that's precisely what I'm not comfortable with."

"But you think about hurting me?"

"Oh, God, yes." The faint smile relaxed into place on his face. "At length and with relish."

Molly felt her teeth grind. _Down, girl. Just keep cool._ "What specifically did you have in mind? There are some things I simply would rather not do."

"Of course. The same goes for me, as well. I have some curious distastes, as well as certain tastes unusual and varied. I would expect it's no different for you."

Silence fell.

"You were going to tell me what you specifically had in mind, Sherlock."

"Ah. Yes! My apologies. I haven't really had much opportunity to do this sort of thing before, so it's a bit overwhelming."

Molly wanted to make a quip about children in candy stores, but held back to just a giggle.

His eyes narrowed. "What were you just thinking?"

Molly felt as if she had a fish on a line. She held back speaking for a moment, and his eyes didn't waver from her. "I don't want to say."

His eyes narrowed further for a moment, and then a smile. "I'll get it out of you someday, Molly Hooper."

Molly found she was biting her lip. "And what is that supposed to mean, Sherlock Holmes?"

"You heard me, Molly." He stood from the chair, undid the button of his jacket, and slipped it off. "Now, as for the specifics, I won't claim I'm inexperienced at inflicting pain in a metered fashion, but I think starting small wouldn't be a bad idea. I believe you've got less experience receiving." A tension shifted through his jaw. "Am I right?"

Molly found herself avoiding his gaze. "Yes. You're right."

"Everyone was a beginner once. Even me, although for only a very short time." He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up as he walked past her. "Just a moment."

"Sherlock?" Molly fought to keep the pitch of her voice level.

For a few moments, she was alone, and could hear nothing. Those moments were nerve-wracking. _It's a prank. He's led you along for some experiment. He's just playing with your mind. It's a new level of cruelty on his part._

She just had to hold it together. She just had to.

A few more seconds, and then she couldn't stop herself. "Sherlock?"

Warmth was present on the immediate left of her upper body, and his voice arrived at nearly the same time. "Watching you squirm is exquisite, Molly. Do forgive me a moment of weakness. I did not technically request to be able to isolate you, whether that isolation was real or otherwise."

Muscles in her body relaxed. "It's okay, I just -- I got a little scared."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Molly, may I touch you?"

Fresh tension flared and she felt a flex in her thighs and calves. "How? Why?"

"I'm told this might qualify as a 'comforting' gesture. I didn't mean to cause you unintentional distress."

Molly couldn't stifle a chuckle. "You're c-concerned about 'distressing' me after you've admitted you would enjoy hurting me and liked s-seeing me squirm?"

A pause. "Molly, are you . . . amused?"

"A little! It's k-kind of funny!"

Silence. "I suppose. Perhaps I'm being overcautious."

"No, it -- when you did it, when I found out you were kind of just toying with me that way, it -- I liked it."

Sherlock moved in front of Molly. His hands were gloved, and the effect was a little strange -- not his usual gloves, they smelled fresh as if he'd purchased an identical pair just for this place, or perhaps just for her. "Allow me to touch you, Molly. Please."

Molly hesitated. She saw the same narrow-eyed curiosity as when she'd kept her giggling motive to herself. _He wants something from me._ "Yes."

His hand moved above her head, to her hair, and traced a finger along her hair. Something shifted on his face for a moment. "Molly, if you find you've any issue that you'd like to discuss, please feel free to use 'yellow' to indicate you'd like to have me stop and provide me with feedback. If you need the scene -- or indeed, even the entire the arrangement -- to stop, please use 'red'." He drew in a deep breath, his eyes watching her face with that same snake's attention to prey. "Does that make sense?"

Molly nodded, holding her words back. She wasn't sure what he'd seen, but it was Sherlock. She could never really be sure.

"Good. Remember, 'yellow' and 'red'." His hand made a soft stroke along her loose hair.

Molly shifted in the straps, further creaks coming from the material holding her in place. His hand found its way to the side of her head, and then came the stroke of a leatherclad fingertip along the very edge of her ear. A quiver pulsed through her body.

"Let's play a game, Molly Hooper. I'm going to touch you, and you're going to try to stay quiet."

She gave a curt nod.

"Excellent." Sherlock traced his finger over the complete arc of the outside of her right ear, his eyes still trained on her face.

Molly shut her eyes tight and pressed her lips together.

"You know, this really is a strange situation, isn't it, Molly?" His finger slid down, off her earlobe, and along her neck. "I don't mean in general. I mean, really, think of it from the outside, of the Molly Hooper yesterday who couldn't imagine doing this in the real world."

Muscles clenched in Molly's jaw and shoulders as the finger moved further down.

"Just think, Molly. You were desperate enough to ask me for coffee. Have you ever even asked any other man -- or woman -- for coffee before, with carnal intentions on your mind?"

Molly clenched her jaw. _I didn't have carnal intentions!_

"Oh, I know. You just wanted to get to know me." He chuckled. "You had designs, Molly Hooper. Perhaps you weren't entirely aware of them, but your face confirmed they were there to begin with." His finger had become several fingers, and now became his hand, laying on her tummy. "Would any other person have provoked that response, if only you'd seen them beating a corpse first?"

Molly swallowed. Somehow, his hand simply laying on her abdomen, even with a layer of blouse between it and her skin, heralded horrifying potential.

"Where do you think I'm going to touch you, Molly?"

Molly fought the urge to respond, which seemed to throb in her tongue. She shook her head. _I don't know._

Sherlock's hand lifted up, and his faint smile appeared again. "Mmm. Interesting. This game is done. So you're not just hoping I'll touch you. You're distinctly underwhelmed compared to that, but the fear of potential pain, that was intriguing." He tilted his head. "Forgive me again, for wanting to be sure so much I felt the need to test. Curse of a scientific background."

"Wh-Why would I lie about that?" Molly blinked.

Sherlock hesitated. "That . . . makes more sense than I suppose I realized. Molly, I'm not very good at trusting people once they know me better."

"No kidding."

"Molly, I'm going to test a different theory. This will hurt."

A moment, and then Molly's field of view snapped to starry blurs, raw pain blooming across the entire side of her head. It took a split second for her to realize she'd been slapped, hard, suddenly.

She was panting. She was possessed of sudden, delirious awareness, a dizzying flare of cognizance. Her vision cleared, and tears blurred up in her left eye.

Sherlock was watching her close, and his eyes met her gaze. Vague delight registered in them. "That felt far better than I expected. Molly?"

Molly's mouth opened and closed. "It's hard for me to say things sometimes."

Sherlock leaned in, still focused on her. "Mmmm. But judging your responses, Molly, I'd say you felt distinct pleasure, particularly just after the initial sting started to fade." His leatherclad hand settled over the warmth on her face. "Now, Molly, tell me, truthfully. 'Yes' or 'no' will do. Did you enjoy that?"

Molly swallowed, but nodded. _He specified that you have to answer._ "Y-Yes."

He smiled and brought his index finger up to her face, wiped at a tear, and brought it to his lips. "I know it's cliched, but I did always wonder what the first tear I caused would taste like. Just saline, as it turns out, but the view is quite something."

Molly forced her breathing to slow. "Sherlock, I -- I'd like to be done for right now, if that's okay? Off this bed and all?"

He blinked, and then set about removing the straps and buckles. "May I assume it's because this encounter has been intense, considering our relative lack of experience."

"Intense is a word for it." Molly turned and brought her feet onto the floor. No shoes, as she'd suspected. The carpet underneath felt new, and perhaps was.

"I'm serious, Molly. This -- " Sherlock brought his hand to stroke her hair again. "I'm working blind here, or nearly so. You are the first living creature I've willfully injured for pleasure."

"You've hurt people for practical reasons?" Molly realized she was using a teasing tone before she got the words out, but the implications were indeed troubling.

"I have, at times." He beckoned, walking through a doorway into a dark room.

Molly followed, letting herself look at the bed she'd been secured to. As she suspected, it was a hospital bed with actual medical restraints. Whatever else Sherlock had done, he wasn't one to half-ass anything.

A light snapped on in the dark room, revealing that it was a sort of 'living room'. Side table, couch, and . . . well, that was it. Still, it was a nice couch, even if paisley was a mistake of a color pattern for it.

"Here, sit. I arranged this as a sort of decompression area. Research indicated that might be a helpful option, psychologically."

Molly plopped herself on the couch. All sorts of self-doubt had started creeping in, the kind she had fought most of her life -- the self-doubt that she wasn't going far enough. _Silly little Molly Hooper, here with a man she fancied, couldn't do more than let him slap her._

"Molly?"

"Yes! I'm s-sorry. Sorry." She swallowed and felt her automatic smile appear. "Thinking. Little, um, overwhelmed."

"Understandably." Sherlock settled himself into the opposite corner of the couch. "I won't lie, I believe I am as well."

Molly nodded, and her eyes swept along. Sherlock was still with his sleeves rolled up, his chest rising and falling fast, sweat in his hair, and a tented shape just south of his belt buckle.

Molly ripped her gaze away. _He's erect. How long has he been erect?_

"I apologize. If it's a troubling sight, I can -- "

Molly shook her head. "No, I figured you might get that way specifically during, it just -- I guess I didn't think I'd take a good look. Or maybe I assumed I wouldn't really warrant any signs of arousal."

"Wait, what -- "

Molly shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it right now. I just need some quiet. And some, um, snuggling." She looked at him. "Is that all right? Just for a bit?"

"Certainly, if it'll help. I don't want to traumatize."

Molly hesitated, then moved herself to sit with her leg touching his own, and settled her head on his shoulder, then wrapped her arms around him.

For a moment nothing else happened, and Molly had the notion that perhaps this is what Sherlock thought 'snuggling' was, but then his arms gently settled around her. "Thank you, Molly Hooper. I look forward to more of this, when we're both ready."

It wasn't want she wanted, was it?

She wanted to know him, to be able to at least see something nobody else got to see in him.

_Well, check._

She sighed, and Sherlock's other hand moved to touch Molly's hair. For a moment, she thought something was wrong with it, but it became clear soon that Sherlock had taken the gloves off.

Molly closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the scent, the petting, and the fact she was snuggling against someone she'd daydreamed regularly about snuggling with.


	3. A Detour (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progression of a complex sequence.

Molly blinked her eyes awake.

The soft supportive thing under her was a bed. The vaguely-coming-into-focus wallpaper, lavender scent, and soft ticking of the family clock in the hall suggested that it was her own bed.

Molly looked round.

She was indeed alone, save for a purring Toby. He turned, blinking at her, one ear flicking.

"Mmm. Good morning, sweetness." She reached out and stroked along his back. Molly paused. Her wrist was sore. Why was her wrist sore?

The events of the previous night matched up to the soreness, and were thrown into sharp relief. Her hand settled on her cheek for a moment.

_He slapped me._

She'd assumed he was irritated with her enough to have done it on a few occasions, but this time, it wasn't irritation. It was a curious sort of curiosity, the kind of thing she'd never imagined seeing on his face.

It was something like the look he'd given the corpse before he beat it, back with the riding crop.

Molly pulled the comforter off and took a look at her legs. Marks circled her ankles, faint but obvious to an experienced eye. She might not be as observant as Sherlock, or even John, but she'd seen these sorts of marks before, far darker. Once on a convict who'd tried to break the hospital bed he was restrained in, and a handful of times on some of the 'patients' at the morgue.

Molly nibbled at her lip. It shouldn't thrill her to think of something so deeply morbid, but it did. She didn't want to be dead, she didn't want to have sex with the dead, but she had seen too many corpses getting rough treatment from Sherlock not to envy them that little bit. If it weren't for the chemical hangover soaked into her brain and liver, she'd honestly consider taking advantage of her privacy and touching herself as she'd intended last night.

_Last night._

Seemed it was more like the first night. She'd finally felt him strike her, and the moment was sharp and clear in her head as when it happened. A delicious sense of fear, norepinephrine buzzing in her veins, and a muscle contraction deep in her gut.

Molly sighed and slid her hand under her pyjama top to settle it on her breast. Perhaps it was the deleterious effects of last night's sedative cocktail, but the usual touch was producing unusual intensity. Echoes of the first time, when she was just starting to find out what touch could do. Molly had let herself think of a damsel in distress, eyes wide and blood pumping, and an equally cruel captor smiling in the dark. It was juvenile, but as with any deep-seated fantasy of a young woman, it had become the primer coat underneath more colorful compositions. While she'd imagined being the young woman bound and subject to the whims of a predator, her fingers had found raw aching pleasure of one of the first few orgasms of her life. Her focus had been on the pain and terror of the victim she imagined herself as being, but now there was new stimuli. She could let herself play with the idea that it had always been Sherlock, that his face was clear in the dim light. She could imagine seeing the faint delight registering on his face when he realized he'd hurt her and she'd enjoyed it.

Molly shut her eyes tight and let her hand squeeze, gently. The sensation was one she wanted to amplify, and had many times -- kneading and groping, imagining strong possessive hands in place of her own -- but right now it seemed a little unrealistic.

Somehow she'd assumed he had his pick of women, like so many other men seemed to, but he'd said he hadn't ever hurt anyone for the sake of pleasure before, ever. Molly found it easy to believe, considering his reaction to a small amount of stimuli. She'd fully expected, in some way, that he was going to want far more than she'd have to give, but he didn't seem like he was pushing, not yet.

She was, at least in that sense, his first time. His first physically sadistic act was given to her.

Her hand gripped tighter, and she drew a sharp breath. She knew what the leather felt like with his hand inside it, and it colored her imagination's concept of his touch in other places.

A buzz sounded out, startling her out of her inner experience.

Molly sat up. Her phone sat on the bed table. She moved to the side of the bed, curious now. Her mobile was indeed quiet and dark. The mystery buzz sounded again, and the vibration wasn't the same as her mobile's, either.

Her eyes shifted to find the source and lit upon a different phone, which was alight and vibrating.

She picked it up, and on a hunch, leaned in to take a sniff of it. Fresh 'new tech' smell, and a faint whiff of clean, unscented soap. Molly found the on button, and the screen lit up. Three texts were there, waiting. One had an attachment.

She tapped for the first one. It'd been received last night, a few hours after her shift at work. Probably after their encounter, or before she'd woken up. More Sherlockian planning.

[ Can't trust phones in either of our names. This one is clean. Keep it secret and close. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly considered this a moment, then decided potentially disturbing implications were a thought for later. She tapped for the second one.

It was a picture of her obviously sedated and completely nude.

A corner of her pyjamas was in the background, and suddenly other things made sense. _So that's what happened._ Now and then Molly was so dead tired she didn't remember getting changed into bedclothes, but it was clear that Sherlock wouldn't have put her back home nude, and it only made sense.

The message attached to the picture confirmed it.

[ Pic is only for me. Please confirm consent, else will delete. Delicious souvenir. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly felt like she'd been running, suddenly. Blood flushed through her body, and her hand was on her breast again, gripping. Her nipple was already erect, but touch was not enough. She let herself knead.

_He'll want this someday, Molly. Maybe not soon, but he's never had an outlet like you. He'll escalate._

Molly knew she couldn't know it for sure, but she didn't care. She was panting. She could feel a stronger hand, leatherclad, gripping her breast, instead of her own.

Perhaps he would escalate. Perhaps Sherlock was not merely Sherlock but a man as well underneath. The scent of the man gave her that deep biological possibility, and it was thrilling.

Molly let herself flex her hand as hard as she could, and a moan fought to leave her mouth. Her other hand, still holding the mobile showing the picture of what he'd done while she was unaware, played her thumb to tap down to the next text.

[ Seeing you so vulnerable quite exhilarating.]

[ - SH ]

Molly tapped a response.

[ I consent. Very stimulating indeed. ]

[ - MH ]

Molly plopped backwards on the bed, letting the mobile bounce onto the mattress. She crossed her wrists over her head. As much as her breast ached she didn't want to leave bruises, she wanted him to. It was easier than ever to imagine him over top of her, his legs between her own, his weight pushing her into the mattress. One of his hands would grip tight on her crossed wrists and the other would roam freely, treating her body like a possession -- no, like a hard won trophy.

She'd strain. She'd fight. She'd let herself struggle fully, knowing it wouldn't do her any good, knowing that in the end he'd do what he wished and she'd comply. He'd made last night gentle, but it felt like it was intention, not cowardice or lost nerve.

Molly felt a warm touch on her cheek and yelped, opening her eyes.

Toby looked at her, clearly dubious. He leaned forward and licked her cheek again, then narrowed his eyes and flicked an ear.

Molly huffed and got up. "Jealousy is unattractive, Toby." She fetched a towel from her closet, then headed into the bathroom for a quick shower, still grumbling to herself.

. o O o .

By the time she got to work, she'd set aside most thoughts of the night before. She rarely let herself fantasize about him, in part because getting work done became far more difficult when she let herself. The last thing she needed was to examine a corpse with ligature marks and think of his hands moving over her body, his touch in places that were woefully undertouched.

The mobile, still in her lab coat pocket, buzzed while she was loading the centrifuge. She put the last few vials into place, shut the lid, and fetched out the mobile.

[ Give me access to your calendar. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly hesitated, but updated a few things that weren't on the calendar before, then did as she was told. He knew exactly how empty some of her nights were now. He knew when she would sleep.

Molly took in a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly. _Focus, Molly. Focus._

She tucked the gifted mobile into her pocket, and the weight teased at the edge of her mind the rest of the day.

. o O o .

The evening came. Molly got off at Kentish and took her usual walk with unusual thoughts.

The mobile's silence had made it clear that Sherlock was busy in some fashion, but Molly couldn't help going back over what had happened. When she'd locked her front door behind her that morning, things had been different, and as she unlocked the door to settle in at home with Toby, it seemed that things would never quite be the same.

Toby greeted her in the kitchen, sitting near the food bowl.

"You see, Toby? Nothing to be jealous about. Look who I come home to." Molly bit her lip after hearing herself say it, and put a smile on. "Well. Dinner for both of us, then?"

Sleep came a few hours later, after touch with thoughts of Sherlock, and a sneak look at the lone photo on the mobile's tiny little screen.

. o O o .

The next morning came, and with it the silence of the previous evening. Another text came, asking about Molly's hip birthmark, and that was mildly titillating. Otherwise, the day came and went like so many others had.

Molly settled into the antiroutine of getting odd texts at odd hours, her life punctuated with little buzzes and questions. She found that the mobile had been modified so that it used very little power and could not be set to silent. This had irritated her at first, but then she realized it was essentially Sherlock's pager for her, one of a kind and rare.

She was, somehow, the person -- the woman -- that Sherlock had selected for this. True, she fit all the requirements, but some of those requirements were no doubt personal to him. He wouldn't do this with someone he found unattractive, Molly was certain.

The idea that the permanent mobile access was a sort of strange privilege quelled her irritation and replaced it with a certain kind of pride. The wakeup buzzes gave her a silly little charge every time one came.

It was nearly a week later when the antiroutine itself was interrupted. Molly's transit home was slower than usual, somehow. Distraction had interrupted the routine of her daily life, and now, even on the train, she found herself thinking back.

Her hand snaked into her jacket pocket and brought out the mobile. She'd checked it three times for phantom buzzes, and each time wondered whether she should care. The 'privilege' of the mobile had worn a little thin, she supposed. Molly sighed, looking at the phone. No doubt he was busy. He did essentially work constantly whenever he had a case. He probably had picked another case up this morning.

The phone came to life in her hand.

Molly yelped and covered her mouth with her free hand. A few heads turned her way, but she couldn't take her eyes off the phone.

She took a breath and tapped to the text message.

[ Skip Kentish. Take Cricklewood. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly bit her lip. She moved her thumb over the screen.

[ Will you be there? ]

[ - MH ]

She didn't even feel as though she should ask the question, but some nagging sense of safety kept telling her that even Sherlock didn't just get to send her around like he does with John.

[ I will be meeting you in the area. Trust. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly swallowed, then tapped back.

[ Will take Cricklewood. ]

[ - MH ]

She took another deep breath, then let it out. She had nothing prepared for this. _Stupid. You should have been ready!_

Molly started breathing again, but a little too fast. She hesitated, then scanned the train car. Nobody was looking at her, and she was sitting away from people as usual. She let herself tap back into the text messages and opened up the one with the picture.

Molly chewed her lip. _That's me. That's me and I wasn't even awake for it._ The concept would have been terrifying out of the blue, but considering the source, it sent tingles through her thighs.

_He wants me again._ For what, she couldn't know, and that was all the more exhilarating. 

. o O o .

Cricklewood came soon enough. Molly made her way through the station at a brisk clip, and her gifted mobile buzzed almost as she walked out of the building.

[ Two blocks left as you come out. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly kept the phone in hand, nibbling her lip still. She didn't have a thick enough coat on for this walk, but shivers weren't going to keep her from finding out what Sherlock was up to this time.

[ Right into the alley just up ahead. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly took the right into a dark alley, and realized she had no idea how far this was going to go. _Does he want to catch me? Why would he give me all these directions?_

[ Keep moving. ]

[ - SH ]

Molly blinked. "He can see me?" She started walking before she realized the error. The mobile had GPS, of course. _He knows where and what I've done all this past week._ The realization sent shivers through her, and not ones of the cold.

[ Door on your left. Take it. ]

[ - SH ]

The door was painted white at least a few years back, and was unmarked save for wear and tear. The knob was surprisingly sturdy, and looked a bit newer.

Molly reached out and gripped it, then turned it, and opened the door.

A hallway of fifteen or so meters, with a linoleum floor and similarly white walls stood behind it. Perhaps every third of the plastic light fixtures on the walls were working, which cast most of the hall in shadow. There were two doors, and it looked like there was a stairwell at the end.

[ Lock it once inside, then take the key on back. ]

[ - SH ] 

Molly turned around, and indeed, there was a key taped on back of the door. She bolted it and tugged the key off, stray flakes of white paint coming off on the tape.

[ Key is yours. Keep on keyring. Text back once done.]

[ - SH ]

So he couldn't see her? It supported the GPS theory, although it was Sherlock, and certainty was something he had but nobody else ever really did.

Molly shifted on her feet while she got the key on her ring. It looked like a reasonably secure front door key, with nothing to make it stand out from anything else except the significance of how it had arrived in her hand.

Molly bit her lip, then tucked her keys into her bag and took the mobile in hand again.

[ Done. ]

[ -MH ]

A moment passed, Molly standing in the hall, breathing, trying to think.

[ Good girl. I'll take you the rest of the way. ]

[ - SH ]

"What?"

Molly had scarce breathed the word out before something clamped over her mouth from the side, and she was forced forward a few inches, a body's weight pressing her to the door she'd just entered through. She shrieked into a leatherclad hand.

Molly's head spun. She could smell his soap again, and the scent made thought difficult. _Of course he was waiting here for me._ His body was all muscles, it seemed, dense but lithe, and she could feel his erection pressing against her buttock. A faint pulse seemed to live in it, following his heartbeat. Was that her imagination?

His voice was at her ear, half confidence and half growl. "Keep quiet, Molly. Listen, and you'll know why you must keep quiet."

The moments passed. It became clear after a few moments that the abandoned alley had some minor foot traffic approaching or near the door.

"Foot traffic patterns are surprisingly predictable, once one's got enough information from the cameras. You're going to keep quiet. Do you understand?"

Molly nodded as much as she could, and his hand came away. She panted for breath. "I'll keep quiet."

"Mmmm. Of course you will, Molly. You always want to be a good girl." His tone seemed clipped, but the throb of flesh pressing against her body told her he wasn't put off.

 _He likes seeing you hurt. He likes seeing you terrified._ It seemed like the most illogical of things to make one's blood sing, but sing her blood did, racing through her body. Molly stumbled back and found herself pressed against the door she'd just come through.

Sherlock followed forward, and his hand was on her throat, his mouth at her ear. "You looked like a rabbit, Molly, a rabbit facing down a predator." His body pressed against hers. "You still do."

Molly was acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock's erection was pressing against her, and swore she felt a throb pulse through it. "It -- it s-startled -- "

"Now, Molly, don't lie. It scared you, Molly, and it was delicious."

Molly bit her lip to stifle a whimper.

"I feel your trembling, Molly. I feel your heartbeat. They could so easily be stopped. Humans are surprisingly fragile if one knows what they're doing." The hand on her throat gave the slightest of squeezes.

Molly shut her eyes tight, quivering between Sherlock and a hard place. A whimper escaped her, and she was sure she felt another throb in the member pressed against her upper left thigh.

"That's a lovely noise you make, Molly Hooper." The words were warm and flowed over her ear, and then his hand left her throat, and somehow the absence felt cool, even cold. His head moved, and she felt his nose nudge against her neck.

Molly felt her head tilt as if to give him more room, access, herself -- and a thin moan slid out of her throat quite before she realized it was happening.

A growl in his throat came to touch her flesh. There was the tiniest shift in his body, pressing against her harder for a moment. "Tilting one's head in such a manner is a typical arousal sign suggesting submission." He shifted again, and the door responded with a soft creak. "I've been studying up more on sexual arousal signs and you truly are quite a test subject. The thing I'm finding remarkable now is that you actually looked at the nude photo on the train." He leaned back, watching her. His eyes were pinning her to the door as a butterfly collector would pin a specimen. "Most of the times you looked at it, you were alone home or at work with privacy."

Molly trembled, clamping the urge to beg for more touch, for hitting, for anything. "H-H-How did -- "

"Shhhh. Safeword if you must, but don't ask for explanations when I wish to do violence."

Molly felt her head nod, but all she could do was wonder. _Do I trust him? Can I be sure? What if I've just baited the most obsessive, capable stalker possible?_

"You looked at it. Shame is generally a purely negative stimuli, but not so for you. I noticed it in the way you seemed drawn to me despite the intentional, outward prickliness I use to ensure general social distance. You enjoyed the idea that something demeaning, dehumanizing had happened to you. You particularly seemed to enjoy that I didn't apologize."

Molly forced herself to find breath. "I wanted to touch myself so badly." The words came out in a huff. She hadn't remembered that until just now -- panic was driving adrenaline through her brain, still -- but now she felt like she'd been waiting to tell him since it happened. Maybe she had been. "I did every time I saw it. I wanted to touch because you weren't there to touch."

"Your relationship with praise was quite unexpected as well. You seem to value it as most do, but if it's a small amount with a larger amount of denigration, you seem to respond even more. Did you feel dirty, wanting to touch yourself, laying on your bed after seeing the picture on the mobile?"

"Y-Y-Yes." Somehow that one word took so much effort. Silly doubts flashed through her. _He'll disapprove._ As if, somehow, he hadn't brought her here and watched her on every leg of the journey. She wobbled under him, and the muscle tension in her thighs and between clenched for a moment.

His smile spread open, like any predator anticipating a meal. "Excellent. Molly, close your eyes."

_Is he going to hit me? Is he going to grope or slap or kick or choke?_

One leathered hand took a grip at the back of her head and laid pressure, tilting her head. His mouth pressed to hers as his body pressed her whole self against the door.

His kiss was not the timid probing she'd have expected for a first real kiss. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, lithe and possessive. Faint growls in his throat tickled instincts that fired her blood and drew whines from her. She stroked at his tongue, then brought her lips closer to suckle on it.

He broke the kiss, and for a moment seemed inscrutable again -- but the steady glare he held with Molly and the flex in his member told her he'd found it pleasing. "I believe the rest of our activities tonight would be best executed inside the flat. I'm going to take you the rest of the way, Molly. Close your eyes."

Molly blinked, then did as she was told.

One of his hands settled on the side of her neck, and a jab stuck the other side.

Darkness followed.

. o O o .

Molly found herself staring at the white tin ceiling again, just like last night.

 _No._ Something was different, but it took a moment for her to process it.

The ceiling was further away.

Molly sat up, and the whole room seemed to shift on its axis around her. Balance was not quite something she'd regained, it seemed.

There was dim light in the room, but she could see that she was dressed in cotton pyjamas -- a cami and shorts, like hers at home, but not her own. These were plain white and the texture was a little different.

Molly got on her feet and made her way to the lone door in the room, only to have it open as soon as she got in front of it, colliding with her and sending her tumbling to the floor.

She squealed and landed with a whump on the carpet, vague pain blunting through her hip and shoulder. Fresh adrenaline pushed into her veins.

_I need help. Something's happening. Something's going wrong._

"I wondered when you'd wake." Sherlock was cast in light from the other room for a moment before he shut the door, leaving them both in the dark. "I suppose it's time to play."

"Christ." Molly knew it was babbling at this point but couldn't stop herself. The fleeting memory of her safeword drifted through her mind. Did she want to stop?

A blinding flash gave Molly a frozen moment of the room to consider it, but that split second let her see his face again. The look on his face was confident, curious, delighted.

_He's pleased. I want him pleased._

She squealed and howled as hands grabbed at her body, trying to push him away. He found purchase gripping her wrist tight, and twisted it hard behind her somehow, then pushed her up against the wall.

Molly tried to find his gripping wrist to free her twisted arm somehow, grunting. _He wanted a fight? Well, fine. He's got one._

Sherlock's other hand found her free one and grabbed it too by the wrist with a growl. "That's more like it! Lively game makes for better sport."

Molly found she was panting, and Sherlock's erection was again pressing into her -- this time her butt, against the cleft between her buttocks. As much as Molly didn't want to demonstrate her arousal, her back arched, pressing her ass against him.

His mouth was at her ear. "So broken, Molly. While I feel certain my urges would prove more damaging to others, yours seem only dangerous to yourself. Just as I find myself wondering idly whether I can trust myself to mete out violence appropriately, you must have found yourself curious at one time or another what could happen if you succumbed to the urge with someone who might take advantage of it." His teeth caught the edge of her earlobe in a sharp nip.

Molly bit back a moan, but her hips shifted all the same, and he wasn't going to miss that.

"Mmmmmm, you have indeed. I'd venture that you've gone further in your head. I'd wager you have imagined yourself as an owned plaything, beaten and fucked and kept in a cage. Perhaps even something that started small and ballooned out of control."

"Y-Yes." Molly choked out the words.

"Unsurprising." There was a moment where, although Molly could not be absolutely certain, she swore his hips shifted, his cock rubbed against cloth layers against her rear.

"Oh, fuck." The words came out of Molly in a huffing grunt.

"Moving a little fast there, Molly. Ask a boy to dinner first." He brought her twisted arm back up a little more.

"P-Please, it . . . I'm s-sorry, I'm -- "

"You're _what,_ Molly?" Sherlock stepped back from the wall, bringing her away from it. In a smooth effort, he pushed her onto her back, onto the floor, and grappled for her wrists again. His knees were between her legs, and his hands were holding her wrists above her head. "Psychologically damaged? Weak-willed?" She could feel every breath, and the thinnest light of the room let her see his eyes gleaming above her.

"S-S-Sexu -- " The words broke into a moan as he pressed down. He had more mass than was apparent, and he knew it. She couldn't help but respond, pushing up against him, even with the pain in her arms.

"You needn't strain, Molly. Showing off your vocabulary isn't the point of this exercise. The question is, 'Why were you swearing?' Answer me while I take something I need." His mouth was on her neck, but kisses were not on his mind. His teeth took hold of her flesh.

Molly shrieked under him, but his hands did not yield and his teeth simply found another piece of her flesh to bite. Another growl came, but this one literally vibrated through her flesh, canine and raw and triggering God only knows what in the deepest recesses of her brain. "Want t-to cum." The words came out half-whine, half-moan, and the vicious cycle of Molly becoming aroused by the fact she was aroused iterated again.

His mouth came off her neck, and air moved over saliva -- _his_ saliva -- on the bites her neck bore. She wasn't completely certain he hadn't drawn a little blood.

"That's more straightforward, isn't it, Molly? Good _girl_." He emphasized it with another thrust, one that throbbed, firm and impossible to get away from without resorting to that word.

Molly shut her eyes tight and yelped. She wasn't wearing anything under the pyjama shorts and he knew it. There'd be spots of wet, she was sure, but the idea only made her back arch more.

He chuckled and lifted off her body, moving from his knees to crouch, watching her. "Is that all you've got, Molly Hooper? Blinded and meek as ever, it seems. I expected more fight from you, despite how much of a doormat you usually are. Even with adrenaline in your veins and your fight or flight reflex, your first instinct is to submit, is it?"

Anger leaked in and mingled in the sauce of need and terror. "F-Fuck you, Sherlock." She spat the words at him and imagined the satisfaction of actually getting a punch on Sherlock Holmes. She'd considered rebuking or slapping any number of times, usually on immediate impulse after something he'd said or done, but all he'd ever done was interact with her in public. As much as she wanted him to just hold her down and fuck her, for a moment she found a way to want to see him bleed.

He was, as usual, oblivious. "You're not selling it. Oh, you're irritated, but doesn't matter, does it? You're too aroused and intimidated to act on it."

Molly drew a breath and fought. She wanted to sit up, then to take a wild punch at him. The urge surprised her, even now, even with this burning fury rising up in her throat.

It surprised her more when she did, indeed, lunge at him.

The effort was wasted, of course. Sherlock practically vanished, and Molly fell forward on the carpet with a squeal only to have a knee on her back. "Looks like someone can actually fight after all." He sniffed. "Well, attempt it, anyway."

"Fuck you." Strange sensations shifted over her head, and Molly couldn't keep from whimpering. The fury that bubbled to the surface seemed only too ready to sink deep again, now that she had no clear avenue of attack.

It became clear in short order that Sherlock was doing something with her hair. It wasn't clear what until he'd wrapped most of her long, carefully maintained locks around his fist, brought his knee off her back, and yanked hard. "Come along, Molly. On all fours."

Molly felt her eyes tearing up. _Like an animal or something._ It made her want to touch herself more than anything she'd experienced so far that day. She struggled and got herself on hands and knees, as she'd been told.

"Good girl." His smile found its way out again. "Mmm. Dehumanization combined with praise, definite increase in arousal." He led her along by her hair, through the doorway and into the other room. Soft light came from a bare lamp on a table in the corner. "I'll admit I never thought I'd find my dog training research useful in the real world."

"I'm n-n-not an animal." Molly felt like the words were slipping from her. Could he do that with drugs? Was it psychological?

He sat himself in a chair, and she finally got a good look at him. Crimson Oxford-style shirt, unbuttoned. Faint, fair hair furred the chest underneath. He'd shifted from the pinning gaze earlier to the vaguely reptilian one. She'd seen it many times, but it was different now, with something utterly primal that she couldn't miss even drugged up.

It was like the glow in his eyes when he was looking at evidence, or conjecturing. Seeing it sent a knot from her stomach to her sex.

Molly realized she was staring, and a moment later, she realized her hair had been released.

His smile spread a bit further before he deigned to give her an answer. "Of course you're not an animal, Molly. It wouldn't be nearly this interesting to injure an animal."

Molly shuddered and her teeth ground.

"No wonder you're so introverted. If any unscrupulous sort recognized just how easily you're set off, one could not guess what you'd be subjected to." His head tilted, ever so slightly. "How long was it before you decided that I was trustworthy enough?"

Her voice felt like it was echoing from the other room, or down the hall. "F-For what?"

"I assume you evaluate others based on how much they seem willing to abuse the privilege of access to you. 'No' isn't exactly a common part of your vocabulary, Molly. I assessed your social interactions via a series of seemingly casual conversations with a few of your colleagues and observation. Most of your co-workers described you as 'nice', 'helpful', and 'shy'. None of them, however, could remember a time you'd turned down a single request. Oh, you'd hedge a little sometimes, but really, you were always willing. You seemed, if anything, concerned that you wouldn't be able to do favors for people with enough skill, or that you'd have to hurry, or somesuch. All the concerns were about them, not you. What this suggests is that you, Molly Hooper, have a particularly difficult time saying no to a direct request."

Molly sucked a sharp breath in.

"So, my question, as you asked, is: When did you decide that I was trustworthy enough to actually let yourself seem vulnerable and compliant?"

Molly searched the carpet with her eyes, finding no explanation for the panic rising up over the back of her neck. "W-W-Well -- "

"If you don't want to tell me, Molly, I will be surprised, but I won't press." A moment of silence. "It seemed like a simple enough question."

"It's n-not that! It w-was after Mike Stamford mentioned knowing you some years back."

"That's part of it, and perhaps the largest part. Mmm." Sherlock studied her face. "It's not all. What else? What told you that I wasn't going to dismantle your body, sell you, or poison you, if I had the chance?"

Molly felt notions sliding in her head, turning and interlocking, turning and interlocking other notions. _He could kill you. Christ, that's exciting. Not only could he, he knows it. Not only that, but he's tossing off casual concepts of how to do it._ Molly forced herself to find words. "You m-moved in with John."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Do you think he's that difficult to deceive?"

Molly gave a slight shrug. A shiver pulsed through her thighs, threatening to turn into full-on shuddering. "He's trusting about sm-small things. You can't survive through what he's survived -- " Molly cut herself off. _You didn't even hear that conversation. John and Mike didn't know you were there. You cannot possibly tell Sherlock that._

"You needn't betray a confidence if you have one, Molly. He does indeed give off distinct trustworthiness."

"It's not that! He didn't say anything to me." Molly paused and forced herself to formulate instead of babble. "He's a different breed of book smart, but that's not what you're asking, Sherlock. You want to know if he's stupid, and he's not stupid."

"True enough. He is, however, less than observant. Fortunately, that seems to serve my needs well, and I his." Smug blossomed on his face. "The responses tell me more about you, however. The moment I suggest you can turn down even a question, you hurry to comply and give an answer. I knew I'd be able to hurt you, Molly, but this suggests I don't even have to try to get what I want out of you. That sort of thing can be amusing sometimes, but I'd like to go a little deeper with this."

"What d-do you mean?" Molly cursed her stutter in silence, a well-worn frustration that had turned into a sort of neurotic tic in her head.

He leaned forward in the seat. "Molly, I'm sharing a secret with you. I'm trusting you. I need to know you're capable of protecting the secret I've given you. Some of that will be me teaching you false, plausible stories and how to recite them as if they're true. I'm an extraordinary liar when I need to be, Molly. If anything, I'd think you'd have noticed that about me."

Molly blinked.

Sherlock tilted his head a little, then leaned forward and beckoned her closer.

Molly leaned in out of reflex, and before she knew it his hand took hold of her throat.

"Stay on your knees and move forward."

Molly tried to keep calm with the pressure on her throat and moved her body so that it was supporting her head. The feel of his hand on her throat because more and less comfortable simultaneously, somehow. _He could put you to sleep._ Is he pressing the blood vessels? No, he wasn't -- as far as Molly could tell. Obviously she'd never tried it herself, it wasn't safe. And, of course, she'd never let anybody try doing it to her.

 _I've never even let on, as much as I can keep it to myself._ The thought felt stark.

His eyes narrowed. "What was that?"

"I didn't s-say anything."

"No. But I can tell you _thought_ something. Something private, I'd wager. I never saw that look on your face before."

"I w-was thinking you could be pressing on my th-throat so as to cause a cerebral ischemia and -- "

The predatory smile spread again. "You were hoping I was going to make you unconscious by cutting off the flow to your brain. Is this a pattern, Molly?"

Molly choked. "P-Pattern?" She was breathing faster, but he wasn't applying pressure to her trachea.

"Well, sedation, unconsciousness in general, and so on. Is that why you brought it up at the lab that first night? To see how I'd react, whether it'd be in disgust or delight or neutrality?"

 _Oh, fuck. Yes._ Molly knew immediately she had indeed been testing to see whether he'd be disgusted, which seemed insane now. "Y-Yes."

Sherlock chuckled. "A delightful thought." His hand tightened, and his eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Molly, is this all making you wet?"

Molly shut her eyes tight and tried to nod, but no -- his hand was too tight and too close up under her jaw.

"I said 'tell', Molly. Be a good girl and do what you're told."

"Y-Yes. Yes, it's made me wet, I'm almost c-certain." Molly fought to keep the shake out of her voice, but it wasn't working.

"Show me." He released her neck.

Molly whimpered, and whether it was from the lack of contact or the instruction, she could not be sure. She shifted back a little, settling herself on her butt.

"Spread your legs and show me. If the fabric hasn't picked any trace of it, strip it off and show me your vulva. If it's not that copious, check yourself with your finger and hold it so I can see."

Molly felt a distinct muscle spasm pulse through her lower abdominal wall, and pressed her lips together. She shifted her legs apart, hesitant.

"I don't see a sign, Molly. No matter -- I know that's not necessarily likely." He lifted a hand and made a circle with all his fingers. "Come now, the instructions were simple enough, weren't they?"

Molly hesitated. She'd never felt graceful stripping her clothes off, and she certainly didn't now, but somehow lifting her butt and awkwardly tugging the plain white pyjama shorts off wasn't wrong, as if him saying it made it right in some ineffable fashion she couldn't quite truly grasp.

She slid them down her legs and let them drop on the floor with a soft _fuff._

He shook his head. "No. Give them to me."

She hesitated, then picked them up and handed them to him.

The smile spread out again, and for a moment Molly saw that look that told her he was a dangerous, terrifying creature borne of more intelligence than any human was ever truly meant to have. She knew, for a split second more in her life, that if he'd wanted to, he could have killed her a dozen times over and not a soul on the Earth would ever know about it.

He brought the cotton close to his nose, and took a light sniff. "If you find any of your pants missing from the wash, Molly, you may safely assume I stole a pair or two. It's not really stealing if you've got permission, though, is it?" His tongue crept out and traced along the material. "Not enough to taste, unfortunately. Barest whiff, although of course it's blood in the water for the male libido." His eyes lifted up to meet hers.

Molly swallowed and bit her lip. Thank God it wasn't next week, or there might have been spotting. She wasn't sure how he'd react in such a case, but she was glad she wouldn't have to find out tonight.

His eyes tracked downwards. "You're not done, Molly."

"R-Right, right, um, sorry." _Why am I apologizing?!_ The cool air of the room sent shivers across her body, but she swore her face was radiating an oven's worth of heat, and warmth registered on her fingertip as she brought it between her legs, close to her sex.

Her eyes flicked up to find he was staring.

"Would eye contact restrictions help you focus?"

She couldn't register whether it was sarcasm, a vague threat, an offer, or all three rolled into one. Molly shut her eyes. "N-No, that, um, I'm sorry." Her fingertip touched to the edges of her outer labia, and Molly fought back a whimper at the touch of flesh on flesh.

"You know what, Molly? On second thought, look at my face when you do this. I'll be watching what I wish, but you keep watching my face. It seems like it excites you further."

Molly opened her eyes immediately, and found his face, with his eyes already cast down at her sex. The whimper could not be fought back.

 _Isn't this the kind of thing you wanted, Molly?_ The part she found humiliating was that it was, indeed. If it wouldn't make her feel pathetic, she'd have stared at his face for hours, for days, if he'd let her. Somehow, the command made it feel less pathetic.

Sort of.

Molly hesitated but watched his face as she pressed her finger between the lips, stifling a whimper. His eyes looked hungry again.

"Slow. Like that. Just find if you're lubed a little, Molly. Be a good girl and no touch for your own pleasure."

 _Oh, fuck._ How could he know she wanted to masturbate in front of him, like some wanton housepet? He saw what seemed like everything. Molly pressed a little deeper with her finger, biting her lip hard to keep from letting herself like it too much. When she found the slickness, she gasped and removed her finger. "Th-There, it -- it's slick." Her voice felt flat as text on a page. She held the finger up so the lamp could cast a light on it.

Sherlock's eyes lifted up. "So it is, indeed." His own hand came out towards her, and in a flash he'd swiped his fingertip over her own.

Molly quivered, looking at the trail his finger had left in the middle of the thin slick on her finger.

He brought the finger up to his mouth, then flicked his tongue over the tip.

Molly found she was staring, and shut her eyes.

"Open your eyes, Molly. Keep them open unless I say otherwise." When she did, she found Sherlock sitting forward, peering at her face. "Tell me something, Molly. If you were dreaming this, and woke up, would you touch yourself upon waking?"

"Yes." The word came out in a short, plaintive moan. Molly hadn't realized just how much disappointment she'd experience if that were the case, but the thought of touching herself with drifting notions of pain and control from that surreal bastard hero Sherlock would have made her wet if she wasn't already.

"No such luck."

Molly's head exploded with pain, and she found vision returning from a field of darkness shot through with white stars. She was shaking, and her breath was halting.

She shouldn't like this. _I shouldn't like this, but fuck if it doesn't make me hornier._

Sherlock was standing over her when she looked up.

Molly opened her mouth to force words out, but only a nod came.

"Say it." The words came out in a bark. " _Say_ it. Say what's in your mind, and say it like you say it to yourself. Say it like I'm not even here." His eyes widened. "I know you want to. Do it."

"I sh-shouldn't like this, but f-fuck if it doesn't make me hornier."

His smile was the Devil's own. "Tell me you want another strike. Harder."

 _Harder?_ There was already pain radiating through Molly's jaw, and her ear felt swollen. Her visual aberrations were likely burst capillaries. Could she take more? Would he even have asked if she couldn't? He knew the human body at least as well as she did, and he knew how to injure one -- or not injure one -- far better than she ever would.

His eyes darkened. "I didn't tell you to sit and consider, Molly Hooper. Sit up and ask."  


"P-Please hit me again, harder."

"Wrong. I said to tell me you want another strike, and harder."

Molly tried to slow her panting. She nodded and let herself relax again. "Another strike, h-harder, please."

"Close enough." His hand came to the side of her head with a speed nearly preternatural.

Molly wailed and shuddered, opening her eyes to see him. The stinging in her face had become stronger.

His hand settled against her face, over the smarting struck flesh. "You do mark up easily, Molly Hooper. I bet I could bruise your bones if I put more force in it." For a moment the hand was still, simply there, but then it lifted away and came back to trace a soft stroke, with only the tips of his fingers. "Delightfully warm. I'd guess you're equally warm in other places, Molly, judging by the moisture you found."

Words tried to find their way out and failed. Molly made herself nod in response.

His warmth pulled away and he was sitting again, his chest rising and falling as he watched her. After a moment, he separated his knees, and ticked his head as if to beckon closer. "Get on your knees, Molly Hooper, and come to me. I believe I'm going to have your mouth now."

Molly scrambled to her knees and awkward-hobbled towards him, hungry. She wasn't even sure what he wanted her mouth for, but she wanted to give it and couldn't help but hurry lest the offer turn out to have an expiry.

Sherlock snickered as she stopped between his legs. "Let's give you something to do that isn't getting hurt or going unconscious, mmm?" His hand worked a deft motion with the fly of his tented slacks.

A moment later, Molly was staring at Sherlock's erection. Molly had seen a lot of flat images of penises in a sexual context, a number of living patients during her residencies, and plenty of corpses with angel lust. She wasn't a stranger to penises.

This, of course, was far different. She'd never been this primed before. She couldn't smell her own arousal all those other times. And, of course, the owner of the penis hadn't been looking at her with such a confident, triumphant expression.

His hand settled on the back of her head and she found herself nose-nudged by a cock with a slick leak of precum.

The scent was overwhelming, not in intensity but in presence. She'd wondered idly so many times what Sherlock's scent, his underneath-everything-else scent, truly was.

Molly's mouth opened and her eyes shut, and his flesh was in her mouth, warm and throbbing. It felt like the warmest, smoothest flesh wrapped around a rock cylinder, and suckling on it felt more natural than suckling his tongue. Warm meat in her mouth gave her the strangest sense of rightness mixed with new, fresh need. She hadn't realized until he'd done it just how much she'd wanted his cock down her throat, flexing and threatening to provide her first experience in swallowing semen.

"Mmmmm. Now, Molly, I won't necessarily last very long for the first go. I'm going to spend a little while finding out how orally talented you are. I trust that skill will come with time, but I have to say, you seem to have a definite -- nnngh -- definite enthusiasm for the work."

A thick groan came from him, and a thin spurt of slick stuff slithered across her tongue. He grunted and gave a thrust, and for the first time in her life, Molly was gagging on a cock.

She was sure she was leaking now. She had to be. She had to be so wet that she'd look like an animal in heat, and that wasn't far from the mark.

"Have you wondered what my testes against your chin would feel like? Is it what you'd hoped? Rhetorical, of course. Keep working, Molly. I'll let you know when you're done."

Molly moaned on him, and the sound was like nothing she'd heard herself produce. She'd heard pale approximations of it sometimes in porn, or some genuine articles from amateurs with more talent than Molly could ever consider herself to possess. Somehow, in that moment, she could imagine the sight of herself, nude, between a man's legs -- between _his_ legs -- and the sense of triumph in her own mind was near palpable.

_This is a thing I've always wanted to let myself do._

A hard grunt came from Sherlock, a tightness tugged his balls at Molly's chin, and she felt the warm musky splash of semen at the back of her throat. His hand was still on the back of her head, and pressure from it told her he simply wanted to unload where he was.

A thick spurt came, and the knotty throat spasm of wanting to cough or swallow came, but it only clenched her throat around his cockhead and drew another thick, raw moan from him. Molly had no intention of trying to withdraw. Indeed, in the moment, she'd stay there until he was done or she passed out.

There were a few thinner, weaker spurts, and then he gripped fingers into her hair and pulled her head off a ways. Air flowed through her nose out of reflex, but she didn't stop suckling at the last of the leaking issue.

"There's a good girl, Molly. Now, much gentler for a while. I'll need to ride through the refractory period, but I wouldn't dream of taking away the comfort of a full mouth."

 _Thank you._ Shame flushed bright through her blood as she grasped her immediate reaction. If she could, she'd never stop slurping on his cock like a hungry bitch lapping at gravy.

He was silent for a time, and his hand left the back of her head, but she didn't want to look. She didn't want to wonder, but neither did she want to risk the sight of disappointment on his face.

A moment later, when his hand returned, Molly realized he'd removed his leather gloves. _Oh, Christ, he's touching me with his hands._ They felt strange, almost too smooth, but the strength she knew resided in his muscles told her they were dangerous. Soft strokes slid along her mussed hair.

Molly couldn't help but squeak a whimper out. Somehow that made it worse and better all at once, that this was when his touch became more intimate, while she was still suckling on his member.

Her head was pulled off and her eyes flipped open. This was the rebuke. This was his anger. He'd tell her how she failed, tell her what she did wrong. Worse, he might tell her with disgust what a filthy piece of meat she was being.

Molly's eyes shut again almost immediately when he put his mouth to hers and took another kiss. She moaned, and the sound shocked her -- it was the kind of sound she'd imagined, somehow arousing even for Molly to hear. She felt a pulse run through his softening member, pressed against her heart.

When it broke, his mouth was slick and his eyes were hooded. "Plans change, Molly Hooper. Come with me. I think we're done here for now."

She could only be silent. He stood and the firm grasp he had on her hand told her that kneeling was no longer his command, so she stood too and followed him into the dark room again.

Within a moment, he'd pulled her off her feet, onto something that turned out to be a bed, and Molly let her eyes shut before they managed to adapt. He was wrapped around her from behind, and she could feel slick semen-and-saliva on his flesh as it pressed against her butt.

"I'll admit my semen's never tasted quite as good as when it coated the inside of your mouth, Molly. Now, tell me. Are you needing?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

"Needing enough that you'd beg if I told you to?"

"Please, yes. I'm wetter. Please, please, anything." The words sounded like addicts she'd heard in residencies, desperate for a fix and getting denied it.

"I'm going to touch you, now, Molly. Not violently, at least not there for now. I want to see what your orgasms look like."

. o O o .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me. This much of the chapter felt postable, but I know this isn't really an 'ending' to a proper chapter, hence the 'Part I' bit. Part II may prove a letdown in the end, but I'll let anyone reading be the judge of that. ;P


	4. A Detour (Part II)

"Molly?"  
  
Molly's mind snapped back to the present. The present was another dull moment of Monday paperwork in the morgue office at St. Bart's.  
  
The present was also where Lestrade's head was looking at her around the corner.  
  
"Molly? You all right?"  
  
"Yes! I'm -- I'm fine." She produced her usual pleasant smile, tempered by the fact that seeing Greg was usually a pleasant diversion. "Sorry, just zoned out. Was remembering the weekend." _Oh, bloody hell._  
  
"Fun time?" Lestrade stepped around the corner and leaned against the gray metal doorframe. "Do tell."  
  
"Girls' weekend. Nothing you'd want to hear about." She wasn't sure whether Lestrade actually wanted to hear the details, but it seemed like a useful dodge. Whether he'd have been interested in the truth -- that she'd been consensually kidnapped over the weekend for nascent sexual exploration -- she couldn't tell him anyway. She had a very good reason not to, least of which was the fact that Sherlock Holmes could probably eliminate her from his life without the least of trouble.  
  
It'd been nagging at her. Sherlock was a sort of sweet, in his own emotionally clumsy but analytically perfect way, but he was also . . . well, he was clear about the arrangement. It was what it was and that's all it was.  
  
"Molly?"  
  
"Yes! Sorry!" Molly shook her head. "Did I mention the weekend was filled with wine?"  
  
"It's all right. Really, I just wanted to find out if you'd identified the unidentified family we brought in this morning. CI Gregson's eager to get resolution and there's no other evidence." Lestrade's shifting weight suggested the Chief Inspector was practically occupying his rectum.  
  
Molly suppressed a giggle. "We didn't get a notice that they were a priority, so they were handed off to an intern. Mike likes to get a bad one out of their way the first week, and burnt flesh never fails. They're doing dental impressions, but I'll pick it up as soon as I can."  
  
He smiled. "I was hoping. Thanks, Molly."  
  
"Not a problem. The expedite notice must have been lost."  
  
"Actually, that was on our end." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "One of the PCs first on the scene was a little too efficient. Figured since it was our fault it was only fair that I come down myself to beg leniency."  
  
Molly snickered and nodded. "Well, it's always nice to have a visitor with a pulse."  
  
"Or Sherlock." Lestrade grinned and crinkled his nose up.  
  
Molly shot him a look.  
  
"I'm just taking the piss, come on. He hasn't got a sense of humor, so I try to compensate."  
  
"You know better than that!" Molly chuckled despite a vague unease at the ribbing. "This report can wait. I think the intern should be done with dental by now, so I'll get that going. No need to keep you from anything else."  
  
"All right!" A wide grin spread out. "Molly Hooper, the angel of St. Bart's. The Met would be lost without you."  
  
Molly followed him out of the office, and waved as he turned left and she turned her thoughts to work. Dental impressions for the family -- the pelvises and estimated height suggested a teenager and two adults, although Molly was assuming they were related -- were going to be straightforward enough.  
  
Not like the bite evidence she had on her flesh even now.  
  
The walk down the hall gave Molly time to pick up where she left off remembering the weekend.  
  
  


. o O o .

  
  
  
Molly was still breathless from the realization she'd sucked his cock, her body tense against him. He was all muscles against her back, and she swore they slithered as he moved.  
  
"Shhh." One of his hands slid to her tummy, his palm flattening against her. The tip of his nose nudged at the edge of her ear. "Be a good girl, Molly, and let me work." His other hand found her thigh and traced two fingertips along the flesh.  
  
There was a moment where Molly found herself wondering if she was supposed to respond, so she risked it. "Yes."  
  
The hand on her thigh paused. "Yes, what?"  
  
He seemed tense, or angry, or something. She couldn't put her finger on it, nor could she think straight. "Y-Yes, please?"  
  
The tension in his hand melted away, and a throaty chuckle drifted past Molly's ear. "Points for wit. You will call me 'Sir', Molly, when we're alone. I do not know that I'll require that regularly, but I'll let you know if it changes. Now: Yes, what?"  
  
Molly swallowed. This sent heat into her cheeks again. "Y-Yes, Sir."  
  
Sherlock nosed at her ear. "Good girl." His hand gave a gentle squeeze to Molly's thigh. "Do you want me to touch you?"  
  
Molly fought. She wanted to say it, she did, deeply -- but at the same time, that was asking for herself. It took a few seconds for her to push it out. "Yes, Sir." Her voice felt small, and she felt small.  
  
"Molly, I'm not sure you really want it." His voice suggested he was very, very sure. "Ask for what I want to do to you."  
  
This wasn't something she could manage. Was it? He -- he told her to, so . . . so then it wasn't asking. Or it was, but it was okay.  
  
The landscape of her mind swept by for a second or two, but then she found herself speaking. "Please, Sir, touch m-me down there?"  
  
"Close enough for now." His thigh hand slid south over her belly, down across her navel, and settled when the tips of his index and middle fingers were sitting perhaps an inch above her sex. At the same time the tummy hand shifted so his arm tucked against her lower ribs, perhaps a little tighter than was immediately comfortable.  
  
There was a moment, endless and strange, where Molly grasped that a man she'd written off as unattainable to perhaps any woman had somehow decided she was what he wished to attain, and the racing pulse in her ears only served to heighten the sense of irony.  
  
His fingers moved down and then lifted, only to touch down again near the bottom of her flesh. The two fingertips had become a single finger, and that fingertip traced a long slow stroke upwards, friction giving the touch purchase and slickness giving it lubrication.  
  
Molly gasped and shuddered.  
  
"Someone's been having a few salacious thoughts, now." Sherlock's arm squeezed her close, and a vaguely sticky erection flexed against her asscheek. His fingertip pressed at her cleft, warm and wet against the flesh.  
  
"Y-Yes, Sir." Molly managed to get the words out between shaky breaths.  
  
"You can keep quiet, Molly. I'll let you know when I need more of your input." The condescension was warm on her ear, and damn if it didn't send another jolt through her flesh, the muscles in her body singing in response.  
  
His finger retracted from her lips, and for a moment there was a crashing drop in Molly's head. _I screwed up. I screwed up and he's done now and he's going to get rid of me and deactivate the mobile --_  
  
The hand lifted, past her head, and she realized Sherlock was suckling on his fingers.  
  
A small, gruff sound of pleasure came from him and then his hand moved past her sight again, swift, moving back down between her legs. "I want, this first time, to experience the kinesthetic aspects of your orgasm most clearly. Hence, low light, no eye contact at this point." The softest touch of her scent was on his breath now, but the warmth was what she found herself focusing on -- warm muscled flesh, warm breath, warm-bordering-on-hot cock throbbing against her ass. "I suspect strongly you imagine my touch sometimes when you touch yourself. Am I right?"  
  
_Fuck._ "Yes, S-Sir."  
  
He brought his finger between her lips and took a long, slow stroke along the left, then the right, a gentle pressure on the folds that sent pulses through her Kegels and fresh tension through her legs. "Molly, I'm going to bite youa bit. You know your words."  
  
Hesitation, and then she gave a nod, sensing he was waiting for certain assent.  
  
His teeth found her ear, and she heard herself whimper at the spike of pain in the sensitive flesh. She could _hear_ the moisture of his mouth on her, accompaniment to the soft sounds of his finger moving along wet pussylips. It made for a slick symphony, and Molly felt tension building, knotting and inflating, somehow, inside her. The sense of being possessed instead of held that the whole experience conveyed stoked fire in her body but seemed to shut off part of her mind.  
  
She knew she was starting to get close.  
  
The finger inside her -- his finger, the one she'd wanted to touch for so long -- slid a touch deeper, stroking first over and across her entrance, teasing at what would come, promising but not yet delivering. His lips took her ear, and with gentle suction he tugged at it.  
  
Molly's back kept trying to arch, but his arm held her tight and she forced herself to relax. _Let him. Let him decide. Let him direct._  
  
The suction ceased for a moment. "Good girl, Molly. The next time you touch yourself, I suspect you'll think back to these moments. If so, you are to text me after you orgasm. Do you understand?"  
  
As much as she felt offended by the tone and words, she couldn't help but find the spreading warmth building. She felt too hot, but she knew it was an illusion of arousal. "Y-Yes, Sir."  
  
His teeth found purchase again and more pressure was applied while he sucked. His finger shifted to make a few lazy circles around the entrance as his mouth slid off her ear. "If I'm right, you're getting close, Molly. And if that's the case, I want to make it unambiguous -- you must ask permission to orgasm when you're in my presence. Do you understand?"  
  
Molly shuddered and a spasm pulsed through her. It wasn't the start, but it was the start of the beginning of the start. Molly clenched her jaw. "Yes, Sir."  
  
"Good girl." His finger slid inside her to the knuckle, a probing curling firmness squirming inside her.  
  
Molly stifled a thick moan by biting her lip hard.  
  
"No, no, no." The tone had become chiding, borderline petulant. "Let it out, Molly. There's nobody to hear but me, and I want to hear it all." His finger curled more, the tip massaging at the nerve cluster just inside her, the one she frequently worked herself with her electric bedside companion.  
  
"Tell me things, Molly. Tell me things you want." The question was dangerous, particularly with Molly nearly at the brink. "Tell me how I hurt you in your mind. Pick something you go to for when you touch yourself. Tell me." His fingers let up for a few moments, as if to suggest that this was the bargain he'd decided on. They didn't leave her cunny, but they slid from inside her to stroke along the inner folds and tease light over her clit.  
  
"Y-You spank me. Sometimes you spank my ass. Sometimes you spank my breasts or my p-pussy." There was a distinct throb in his member. "Sometimes I smack myself just to feel it, but I imagine you making me cry."  
  
"Good girl." She could hear the smile on his lips. "And what happens when you begin to cry?"  
  
"I c-cum. I cum when you m-make me cry." The words were sentences only by context, coming out haphazard between and around ragged breaths. She couldn't get enough air in her lungs. "Or n-nearly when, sometimes a l-little after."  
  
"Delicious. Would you like for that to become a reality? For me to spank you until your eyes tear up and you can't hold it back? Tell me, truthfully." His fingers slid back inside, finding new lubrication.  
  
"Y-Y-Yes, please, I do. Please. Sir." Molly's body seemed ready to melt right off her skeleton. Thinking was an unattainable goal at the moment.  
  
"The next night you sleep alone, you'll think of me, spanking only your ass until you cry. You'll masturbate to orgasm while you do, if at all possible. Either way you'll report it back to me via the mobile."  
  
All she could hear was what he'd said to do, and the fact he was filling in for her blank mind at the moment only made her want it more. His finger shifted again. A moan she'd never heard before came out of her mouth, a purely animal sound that spoke of being weak and breathless and needing all at once.  
  
His finger slid out, and was replaced by two, stretching her and drawing a thick moan out. Molly didn't have much resolve left in her, and when he started to work the digits in and out, Molly felt utterly ready. "P-Please, Sir, may -- "  
  
"If you can cum, Molly, then do so."  
  
The cry that broke out of her built quick to a high keening pitch, and his fingers rubbed hard over her spot, working in and out, while he spent breath over her ear. Soft words out of his mouth made no sense to Molly while the wave broke. No words save for three.  
  
"Good girl, Molly."  
  
Those three words were more than enough.  
  
She shook and couldn't stop. He was pushing her further, not letting her plateau at what she'd reached thus far. The cycle of her body trying to arch while his arm kept her close seemed to punctuate the flow of pleasure, making eddies in the river of sensation that flowed across her, through her.  
  
His voice was more than breath on her ear, it seemed to be inside her brain itself. "As far as you can, Molly. Keep going. Remember your safewords."  
  
Molly couldn't have forgotten them if she tried. Those two words had become a refuge even in her mind, even when she was alone and only imaginary Sherlock was available to deal with urges she had. Somehow, even then, she'd use them to keep him from going too far. They dangled in front of her mind, emergency cords to pull but not frivolously.  
  
The flood finally leveled out, and Sherlock seemed to sense it. His movements settled, became increasingly gentle, and slowly awareness settled back into Molly's senses. There was soreness, but on some level Molly was telling herself she'd done right to let him go further than she'd first thought to stop him. She wanted her boundaries pushed, didn't she?  
  
His hand slowed, then stilled, his fingers still inside but quieted now. For a time she simply rested against him, his warm flesh still inside her, his cock still firm and throbbing against her rear.  
  
"I'm going to take them out, Molly. All right?"  
  
Molly managed to nod, fleeting aftershocks pulsing through her musculature. Tension and pleasure alternated deep in her abdomen as he slid his fingers out, gently.  
  
His hand moved up past her face and she got to hear him licking and slurping. "You know, Molly, I think we've gone far enough for right now. As much as I'd like to taste you directly, I believe we need to stop here."

Molly found a sound of assent to provide. Stopping here was fine. Not stopping was fine too. Anything was fine, with the leftovers of the orgasm flying through her veins, it seemed. He was probably right, of course. He frequently was.

  
A few moments later the hand settled on her side, and his nose buried into her hair.  
  
"Curious. I'll have to take up a study on the resultant scent combinations of physical exertion and different brands of shampoo. Mmmm." He drew in a deep breath as one would take in the scent of a flower.  
  
Molly couldn't help but giggle at the thought -- she, Molly Hooper, had somehow inspired research.  
  
"Did I say something funny?"  
  
"N-No, Sir, I just -- sometimes I get a little giggly afterwards."  
  
"Neurochemical high. Perfectly understandable." The arm across Molly's abdomen finally loosened and the hand in question found its way to Molly's hair. "The possessive gesture, did it help? I'd read about it, but wasn't sure how it would play out in real life."  
  
"Yes, actually. Er, Sir." Molly giggled again and shook her head. "I'm sorry. I feel silly."  
  
"Shhhh. Let yourself. Chemistry is to be enjoyed." Another silence came, and then he spoke again. "We'll have to talk about your spanking fetish another time, Molly, if that's what it is. That, or simply test it out."  
  
Molly stifled a whimper.  
  
Sherlock's hand paused on her hair for a moment, then resumed stroking.  
  
That was the last thing Molly remembered before sleep.  
  
  


. o O o .

  
  
  
"Miss Hooper?"  
  
Molly blinked twice and caught up to reality.  
  
She was standing in the doorway of the autopsy room, quite in the way of traffic, and both of the new recruits were staring at her with curious expressions.  
  
"Yes, sorry. Preoccupied." She let herself fall immediately into work mode, and her reserve did not fail. "I'm here to take the unidentified family from this morning. The Met failed to put a rush request. How far did you two get?"  
  
The girl with the black hair spoke up with guilty eyes. "We just cleaned up after our sick out in the hall. We haven't gotten any impressions yet at all."  
  
Molly sighed and put on a polite smile. "It's fine." She weighed the needs of Mike Stamford (give them a gory exercise to make the normal days less horrifying) against the likelihood that the girl was going to be sick as well if the next one was too gory.  
  
Molly watched for a few seconds. The girl blinked, but displayed no immediate queasiness.  
  
_Well, into the breach again._ The sandy haired boy who'd made sick had emptied himself, so off to another horrific but reasonably easy task.  
  
"I think you'd best help with U708 in suite G. Do use the peppermint oil this time, because there were necrotic abscesses and the smell is actually kind of worse." Molly smiled sweetly and watched the two of them trudge out of suite C.  
  
Molly put her hands to the task of mixing compound while she let her mind wander again.  
  
  


. o O o .

  
  
  
It was some time later that night when Molly had opened her eyes to soft light and sound from the other room.  
  
"It's not that it isn't convenient, Mycroft. It is so far from convenient that it isn't even inconvenient. You've found a new order of magnitude which makes the word ‘inconvenient' itself inadequate." The last word came out with sharp articulation. In _ad_ e _quate_. A pause. "You've blunt instruments for this sort of issue. Just send Lestrade." Another pause, a long one.  
  
Molly took a breath. She shouldn't have been listening, and really she was barely paying attention to what he was saying. It was simply the interruption, somehow, when he should have been sleeping.  
  
"The solution is obvious even over the phone, Mycroft!" Sherlock fairly gave a snort. "If they don't trust your word, then mine won't convince them either. As for the ‘fallout', it'll be just as any other police action. Something will blow up, someone will get shot, or someone will be locked up. Half the time it's not the right person, and this hardly seems worth my time."  
  
Another pause. Molly held her breath.  
  
"Fine. Fine. Tell them I'll be by Monday. I don't work weekends unless I wish it, and for such a trivial thing, I certainly won't."  
  
Molly shifted over the smooth material of the bedding. There was a gnawing sense of deceit in listening, growing by the second.  
  
"I told you already, it's just too trivial." Pause. "No, Mycroft, I'm not busy with anything. The absence of action, literally nothing, is more important than your request. I'd rather watch paint dry." Pause, longer. "Mycroft, I've wasted as much time telling you no as I'm willing. Monday or nothing. Text me and I'll get back to you in the morning. For now, I need sleep."  
  
A soft beep signalled the mobile being turned off.  
  
Was he saying no to something relevant to stay with her? A vague mixture of guilt and vanity swirled through her mind for a moment. _No. No, he wouldn't ignore something truly important._  
  
Would he?  
  
The internal dialogue was cut off by the gentle creak of footsteps in the other room. A moment later, he was silhouetted by the light of the other room, his bare chest peeking through a white bathrobe. His expression wasn't in the light, but a thin sense of surprise was in his voice. "My apologies, Molly. I had to check my messages about something time sensitive, and Mycroft happened to call while it was on."  
  
"Something time sensitive?"  
  
"Waiting for test results. Well, waiting to see about whether someone's mother's cat passed away or not, but in this case it's the same thing." The barest quirk of his eyebrow suggested he was aware of the absurd, morbid nature of the information. "I'd forgotten the ringer was on. I didn't mean to wake you, at any rate."  
  
"It's all right. I'm a rather light sleeper sometimes."  
  
"No, you're not." It was less chiding and more almost wistful. Pause. "Sorry. Too blunt?"  
  
Molly waved a hand. "Just one of those social fictions I tend to hew close to, I suppose. Pretending things are always my fault, and all that."  
  
A soft huff came as he shut the door. "You don't need them around me. I certainly pay little enough attention to them, unless they're amusing."  
  
"Old habits. Besides, I'm told they're part of my charm." Molly heard herself chuckle, and realized just how mirthless it sounded.  
  
"Charm is wasted on me." Sherlock shut the door, and Molly heard the soft swish of fabric sliding off his body. A moment later, he got back into bed, and those thin muscled arms slipped around her. He nuzzled into her hair, and warm breath spread against her scalp.  
  
Molly forced herself to breathe normally, or as close as she could with her heart beating fast. It begged a question. "If my charm is wasted on you, Sherlock, then what do you actually get from the . . . experience?" _Dammit, that sounds like you're complaining. He's holding you, idiot. Shut up. Apologize. Something._ "Not that I'm complaining."  
  
His silence was violated only by breathing, and stretched for a few troubling seconds. "I can still let myself appreciate that you're willing to waste your charm on me."  
  
Molly bit her lip. "I don't see it as a waste, Sherlock."  
  
"I know. It's very . . . nice . . . of you to feel otherwise." His arms tightened for a moment around her.  
  
Molly wasn't quite sure what to say to that, but eventually found her stock response. "Thank you."  
  
Sherlock pressed a kiss against the back of her hair, but it was too gentle to signal actual intent of activity. It was, were Molly to name it, a simple gesture of affection. No doubt Sherlock would have a complex explanation about analyzing activities termed ‘affectionate' and selecting an appropriate one, but Molly was more than ready to just close her eyes and accept that, whatever the reasons, Sherlock Holmes' firm body was nestled against her back and his breath tickled the back of her neck.  
  
That was how she fell asleep again in those wee hours, and it was the best sleep she'd had in years.  
  
  


. o O o .

  
  
  
When the morning had come properly, Molly was alone in the cool crisp sheets of the bed.  
  
She found why via text, a few minutes after finding her way to the other room, her clothes folded neatly in a stack and her purse and mobiles arranged just so.  
  
[ Time sensitive issue required presence. Apologies. ]  
[ - SH ]  
  
Just like that. Curiously, there were three other texts. Molly tapped to the next.  
  
[ Not the cat. Cat survived. Unfortunate for research. Fortunate for suspect. ]  
[ - SH ]  
  
Molly stifled a snicker.  
  
[ Suppose also fortunate for cat.]  
[ - SH ]  
  
It was like having a less articulate version of him to read, and it tickled Molly that he'd continued past relevance in this way.  
  
[ Good girl, reading all the texts. ]  
[ - SH ]  
  
Molly drew a sharp breath at that, a flush through her face. _He knew. He knew I wouldn't even begin to be incensed about being left here to wake alone and would read through._  
  
Molly wasn't sure if the realization aroused or shamed her. After a moment, she compromised that, in her case, it was likely both, and slipped her mobiles into the appropriate pockets. At this point, she'd have to hurry just to be a little late to work, but if she skipped breakfast she could manage that.  
  
  


. o O o .

  
  
  
Her stomach was still rumbling as she pulled the solidified compound from the third corpse's mouth, and she still hadn't decided if she felt more pathetic or turned on. But she didn't need to decide at this point, did she? Sherlock had made her feel utterly pathetic while he'd had her in the little apartment, and there was every indication that was going to escalate as he tested out his curiosities and drives.  
  
"Molly?"  
  
Molly snapped out of her reverie again. It was the same voice as before, as far as she could tell, and when she turned she found Lestrade in front of her again.  
  
"Are those them?" His eyebrows punctuated the question.  
  
"They are indeed. Any specific dentists you want copies sent to?"  
  
"List is in the file. That much, we did right." He gave that affable grin of his, the one that suggested he should be forgiven for whatever misstep had been executed, or at least given partial credit for partial working on the problem.  
  
"Right, then." Molly put on her smile. Something itched at the back of her mind, but she was busy and gave it no heed. "I'll get it sent off."  
  
"Thank you so much, Molly. I owe you one." He turned his gaze to his phone and the smile transformed into the earlier constipated look. "Ugh. I have to take this, Molly. Thanks again!"  
  
She waved, and he waved without looking back, and Molly thought that summed up just about every interaction she'd had with anybody in a long while.  
  
Anybody, that is, except Sherlock Holmes.  
  
She slid out the special mobile phone and looked it over. No texts from him today, but she supposed that if he was on a case then she'd see neither hide nor hair until he wasn't.  
  
Molly listened, and the general silence outside the room told her she could sneak a quick look at the picture he'd taken of her.  
  
It was still breathtaking to think back to, still scandalous to see on the tiny screen. Still a little shocking, even if it wasn't quite the fresh splash of the first time.  
  
Molly tilted her head. _Maybe I should mention that. Or ask for more pictures of me._  
  
Hesitating, she tapped to start a new text, and found her signature had been changed in the IM system.  
  
[ - GG ]  
  
It wasn't something she could have done -- virtually all the functions were locked -- but that meant he did it, remotely. It hadn't been that way earlier. But what did it mean?  
  
The last text from that morning slid into her mind. _Good girl._  
  
Molly swallowed and drew a breath to conceal that she was, indeed, finding that a stimulating notion.  
  
When she selected a recipient, that too had been changed. The lone contact in her list now read:  
  
[ - Sir ]  
  
Molly put her hand over her mouth. Nobody would ever see it, of course, save for her and Sherlock, but it was an odd comfort.  
  
She let the smile form on her face as she composed the text, not entirely sure what it would read before she wrote it, just letting herself put the words in and check for sense after.  
  
Even that was a small, strange exhilaration for Molly Hooper.


End file.
